Belonging
by Lirazel
Summary: “For the first time in her life, she feels like a whore.” Inara oneshot, postOiS, preBDM. MalInara implied


Belonging

"For the first time in her life, she feels like a whore." Inara one-shot, postOiS, preBDM. Mal/Inara implied

I refuse to believe that Inara could have left _Serenity_ and gone back to Sihnon and truly fit in there. Here's a glance into her mind between leaving and the beginning of the film.

_Disclaimer: Joss is Boss_

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She never expected it to be like this. When she fled here for escape, her own feelings nipping at her heels, she remembered her former life with the honey yellow light of candles and the streaks of scarlet sunset that always stain the past. As she slammed the door of the life of her training behind her to keep out the life of her choosing, she felt sure she had breathlessly escaped to a serene haven, like Book to his abbey, like Wash in flight. _Now_, she thought, my problems are behind me. No more tangles of emotion woven by forces so big that they seemed beyond her control, no more frustrations and annoyances that seemed designed to most unnerve her, no worrying over when the next job or payment might come in, no wondering when she or someone she shouldn't allow herself to care about might get shot for the last time, no nights spent speculating over whether the ship might tumble out of the sky.

No longer. Just the elegance of the Training School and its pillars, balconies, chapels; the luxuries of its tapestries, incense, silken pillows; the soothing familiarity of rituals, practice, similar company; the pleasant challenges of helping her younger sisters along their path. The life she was born to, raised to, trained to. The life she belonged to.

During the last weeks before leaving _Serenity_, during the first few days on Sihnon, she decided to be honest with herself. She was running away, of course, and from _him_ and how he made her feel—dangerous emotions for a Companion. He stirred up inappropriate thoughts like a stone in a pond stirs up ripples. She convinced herself that if she didn't have to look at him everyday, hear his voice, move through the ship she loves so much with the constant, heavy knowledge pressing at the back of her neck that he was just across the table, around the corner, down the hall—if she could just slip free of all that, it would cease to exist.

All that she could admit to herself, no matter how disgusted she grows with herself whenever she thinks about her own feelings and actions. She can admit to it, because there is no way _not_ to, not any longer. Never, after catching him in that hallway, unkempt and half-clothed and musky with a scent she recognized all too well, could she pretend again.

What she could not—cannot—admit to is the other thing she was running from, the other hell she had to somehow elude:

She never wants to be a Companion again, not a real one. She never wants to look deep into another man's eyes and drip with warmth and desire for him, practically a stranger, and tell sweet, delicate little necessary lies. She feels so soiled now when she kisses another man, gives herself to him, lies in his arms. She can no longer shut _him_ out, but thinks of him with every smile, every caress, every whispered word.

For the first time in her life, she feels like a whore.

And she loathes herself for it. Loathes herself for feeling as though she is betraying him—and worse, herself—when he can so obviously live without her and enter another woman's bed with no qualms at all.

She is _not_ weak. She knows she isn't. But he turns her about till she doesn't know which way is north, and she hates herself for it.

And yet, she fears that she is, indeed, weak. She was running away, not returning to the House because she genuinely wanted to help the younger girls or to renew her bid for the honor of Temple Priestess or even because she missed civilization.

No. She did it because she was too weak to face a reality nearly every other Companion runs into sooner or later—and overcomes.

But though she knew that surrender in the form of leaving _Serenity _would mean an influx of childish angst and adolescent self-loathing, she had not expected all the rest.

She had not expected the life she remembered as beautiful and graceful and cultured to…_chafe_.

She had not expected to grow sick of showing wide-eyed little girls how to pour tea correctly while their nervous, high-pitched giggles induced headaches. She had not expected to be plunged once again into the intrigue and back-stabbing that is a natural product of any place with a high concentration of women, especially competitive, driven ones as all Companions must be. She had not expected to find her sisters and their catty, petty conversations inane and flighty. She had not expected to find the twinkling of crystal and chopsticks and choreographed conversation dull and pointless. She had not expected to finally understand Nandi and her dulcimer fiasco—finally, after all these years of thinking her a little foolish.

But now she misses the autonomy of the shuttle, of her own space, and not having to follow the rules of the House. She misses loud, boisterous conversations at dinner about jobs and jokes and battles and family and everything else that actually _means_ something—means everything. She even misses the adventure of never knowing what is coming next. She misses Kaylee sighing over her dresses, and long conversations with Book, who found no contradiction in mixing faith and doubt, and Zoë's steadying presence. She misses watching River come out of her shell and Jayne taunting Simon, who grew a little less stiff and awkward every day, and Wash saying just what everyone else was thinking. She misses the easy companionship of living among people who are all going in the same direction, who fight _for_ each other, who need each other to survive. And most of all, she desperately misses _him._

She misses feeling_ home._

What it comes right down to is that she misses a feeling of belonging. That petrifies her, because this world of tradition and finery and wealth is where she should belong, not a rough, uncouth one of hairs-breadth escapes and guns and grit.

Of course, she didn't ever _really_ belong there, either. She was too refined, too sophisticated, too groomed to every truly feel at ease in that life. But she remembers Kaylee, more than once, talking about making a place on _Serenity_. And that's what she was doing. Every single day, carving a niche a little bigger and deeper, till one day, perhaps, if she had stayed, it might have been large enough to live in. And maybe she would have been happy, or at least comfortable, and maybe he would have….

But she was weak, and she ran. Now, she supposes, she'll never know.

And not knowing what belonging could have felt like is the worst feeling of all.

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Continued in _Serenity_

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